


And Goodwill to All Men

by wllw



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 05:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17053931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wllw/pseuds/wllw
Summary: An angel and a demon fail to discover the true meaning of Christmas.





	And Goodwill to All Men

Being an angel meant you were supposed to love all of God's Earthly creation, which was all well and good as long as you didn't have to deal with it on a daily basis. Over the millennia Aziraphale had settled into a distant, generalised sort of amiability that did not always survive first contact with its subjects.

If one were to ask Crowley, he would of course say it was the sort of moral tarnish inevitable when spending all of one's time in contact with humanity's inherent wickedness. Privately, however, he found it infinitely better than the unconditional compassion that emanated from other angels like a cloud of particularly cloying perfume. It was more honest, for one. You always knew where you stood with Aziraphale. If he disliked something he'd let you know it, usually through the versatile medium of pointed throat clearing and snippy commentary.

You couldn't truly love something until you'd experienced it, both its good parts and its bad ones. Heaven had never quite understood that.

And never was Aziraphale's love for God's creation tested quite as thoroughly as during Christmastime.

The angel had spent the entire walk to St. James' Park glowering at Christmas light displays and short-circuiting any speaker that dared to play Christmas music in his general vicinity. Crowley, who'd been basking in the low-level stress that permeated the air, was in metaphorical heaven.

"It's happening earlier and earlier every year," Aziraphale was grumbling. "At the rate this is going, it'll overtake the summer holidays sometime this century."

"Thank you," said Crowley. "It was one of my better ideas."

"It's effective, I'll give you that. Greed, envy, wrath, gluttony... It's really quite deplorable."

"And this has nothing to do with all the Christmas shoppers about," said Crowley, who was very well familiar with the angel's usual stance on gluttony.

"Of course not," said Aziraphale, still recovering from yesterday's horde of two whole customers. "I am, naturally, all in favour of the spirit of giving—"

"—you just wish it would happen somewhere away from your shop."

"Well, I'm really just looking out for their loved ones. Who wants to receive some dusty old tome for Christmas? It's practically charity."

"One wonders why you don't receive a commendation for it."

Idly, they watched a member of the MI6 pass secret documents wrapped in a cheerful package to a furtive-looking man in a fur collar coat.

"You know," Crowley said slyly, "I'd thought you'd be happier about this. All this consumerism and indulgence in the service of celebrating the birthday of your lord and saviour? Why, you're practically subverting the machinations of the Enemy for your own purposes."

"It's not even the right date!" Aziraphale protested right on cue, even though he fully intended to use that line in his next report. "You of all people should know this. You were there, as I recall."

"Ah, but isn't the spirit in which the gesture is made what's truly important?"

Aziraphale muttered something very unseasonable under his breath. Because Crowley was in a good mood, and because he figured he'd contributed enough pain and stress to the season that a bit of Christmas generosity wouldn't tip the scales, he refrained from snickering.

Some distance away two men wearing hats and trench coats exchanged carefully worded holiday greetings. A few snowflakes drifted to the ground in defiance of the London weather, then quickly gave up in the face of overwhelming forces.

"Come on, angel," Crowley said, snaking his arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. "Let's get back to your shop. I hear eggnog's traditional this time of the year."

"Really, dear. Do you think bringing American notions into this is going to help matters?"

"They do have some good ideas, once in a while. And you seemed to like posset well enough back in the day."

Aziraphale peered at him suspiciously.

"I'll scare the customers for you," Crowley offered.

Two hours later they were comfortably settled in the back of Aziraphale's bookshop, surrounded by old books and empty bottles. The room was nice and cosy, the non-alcoholic content of the eggnog had quickly and steadily dwindled into virtual nonexistence, and they were pleasantly on the way to being well and truly drunk.

"D'you think," Aziraphale began, paused to retrieve his train of thought, then carried on. "D'you think putting on holiday music might drive customers away?"

"Prob'ly. If it's loud enough," said Crowley. Then, because even demons have to have some standards, he added, "But there're some evils in the world an angel shouldn't stoop to."

Aziraphale stared into his glass, which found it prudent to quietly refill itself. "I suppose so. So much for the Christs—the Chrims—the spirit of the season."

"I think—I think—" Crowley frowned, thinking. "I think maybe the spirit of the season's supposed to be that people always manage to turn things that are supposed to be good into something miserable for everyone, but even through all the stress and the holiday music you can still find people you want to be with and enjoy their company even if you kind of want to hit them sometimes."

Aziraphale considered this.

"Nah," he decided. "I think that's supposed to be the point of all the seasons. Except the bit about the music."

"Yeah. 's kinda trite, anyway."

They sat in silence for a while, contemplating the strange, inexplicable customs of the strange, inexplicable humans that they wouldn't change for anything in the world or above or below.

"A great big Christmas tree blocking the shelves," exclaimed Aziraphale, snapping his fingers.

Crowley leaned back and smiled.


End file.
